


it's not the kind of thing you put into a play

by stormxpilotxtrash



Series: One-Shot of Angst, please. [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Things They Carried - Tim O'Brien
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1970s, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Vietnam, Angst, Bad Decisions, Letters, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, One-Sided Attraction, Student Tony Stark, Vietnam War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2019-10-18 18:37:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17586182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormxpilotxtrash/pseuds/stormxpilotxtrash
Summary: Steve, take care of yourself.a.k.a. the unrequited!Stony, vietnam war-era fic





	it's not the kind of thing you put into a play

**Author's Note:**

> Listen, I have rewritten this thing from hell and back, but I can't find it in myself to give up on it. She really is my baby. 
> 
> So, enjoy! And feel free to comment! <3

Tony writes letters to a man named Steve Rogers, a First Lieutenant in the Vietnam War stationed just near My Khe. 

The Mount Sebastian College postal service is slow, painstakingly slow, so he limits himself to one every month. Because Steve needs the company, he thinks. He's writing one such letter when Rhodey and Bruce coming bursting into his dorm on a bright and suffocatingly warm Saturday morning in early March. 

Tony has a sometimes overwhelming affection for stationary as a poetry major (though terrifyingly conventional). He takes great pains to make sure that every surface he uses is tailored to the subject matter, right down to the perfume he uses. Rhodey likes to call him the “One-Man USO” and even though it earns him a smack upside the head every time, it’s more for show. It’s just Steve and Steve Rogers had a way of understanding unspoken things, even if it took a while. Even if it hurt him. So, Tony trusts that he’ll understand the nature of the letters he sends him. 

“Oh Steve, Steve! When will my love return from the war?” Bruce intones dramatically, snatching the letter from Tony's hands and reading aloud:

 

Saturday, March 13th, 1969

Steve, 

Exams are next week and I’m pretty sure my head will explode from the sheer amount of menial facts I’ve had to pound into it. Rhodey and Bruce were quite the same until Strange suggested we drive down to the beach for the weekend and we piled into his ratty, old Thunderbird. (Ironically, the Ford’s teal paint job is still pristine as when you and I helped him paint it, but once the door is open, a tsunami of books comes to swallow you up).

Every time I visit the beach and I find myself wondering why on Earth I hadn’t gone sooner. Writing to you about it, I find that Jersey Beach reminded me of Albright - or a poem she wrote a few years ago, called "Island":

Island rising from the ocean,  
sands massaged by waves caressing,  
crowned by seagulls, clear fresh water  
bubbles up, a paradise.

You should have seen it, the sunrise, cresting high over that salty Jersey shoreline, it’s light kissing each rock and every little pebble. I searched and searched until I found the perfect one, the perfect pebble that’s in your envelope now (fresh white and speckled with orange little drops of sunshine). I found it exactly where water touches the land at high tide. I wanted you to have something from back here, more than those crappy photographs. Something more abstract. More beautiful. I hadn’t planned on sending it to you. For the first few days, I carried it in the breast pockets of my shirts, where it was so weightless, I nearly forgot it was there. But, I’ve decided that you need this more than I do, Steve. It makes me feel that you and I are both separate and together, just like the land and the sea. Consider it a token of my truest feelings for you (I’m sorry, that was ridiculously sappy). 

Steve, take care of yourself. 

 

Rhodey sits up slowly when Bruce is finished reading in his overblown, lovelorn act, fixing Tony with an unreadable stare. The man in question is suddenly very interested in the grains on his desk and the pens that line it.

“Tony,” He meets Rhodey’s amber gaze reluctantly. “Are you in love with Steve Rogers?” Bruce freezes in his caricature, swiveling to look at him like someone just flipped a switch in his head. 

“No,” Tony responds, quietly at first but gaining momentum. “No, I’m not.”

 

Bonnie & Clyde. That’s what everyone called the two of them, back in the day. So, of course, when word got out that the next blockbuster would be a screen adaptation of their lives, Steve was ecstatic. He asked Tony out as soon as he saw the poster.

Tony hadn't wanted to accept. He did love Steve, he really did, but not in the way Tony knew he supposed to. He thought that maybe he could try. Steve was certainly handsome, with a strong jawline and a gaze as sharp as his wit. He was kind and reliable with a strong sense of justice, a combination that had people, particularly James, falling to their knees. 

But, then there were people like Stephen, all broody and calculating at the back of the lecture hall; charming when he wanted to be, but still cold and mysterious and alluring and Tony . . . he . . .

For the weeks leading up to the film’s release, Tony forced himself and his indifference toward Steve into the background. But, despite his best efforts, he thinks Steve knew, if only a little bit, because every attempt he made to endear himself became a little rough around the edges, a little desperate, as if the prospect of Tony loving him was the only thing keeping him sane. It tore the Tony’s insides to shreds, not loving him, but he carried on: all simpering smiles and sweet notes in lunches.

The night arrived. Neither of them had thought to be anxious until Steve showed up at the doorstep of the freshman dorms and stared silently at Tony for a good 10 seconds, neither of them seemingly capable of anything more advanced than blinking and breathing. 

Tony took it upon myself to overcome this (as he did with many, many things when it came to Steve Rogers) and grasped Steve’s hand in his and held it close to his side, their fingers interlocking in a friendly, practiced way and swishing against the coarse tweed of Tony’s pant leg as they walked to Steve’s sleek black Corvair. But, Tony knew this action to be anything but friendly. Steve didn’t want friendly. 

The film started without much fanfare and he munched quietly on the popcorn Steve bought for them to share, it’s container resting in his lap. It was a strategic move that did not go unnoticed by Tony or the woman sitting next to them, though if she thought something of the way his hand keeps drifting between Steve’s legs, she said nothing. 

If Tony could have focused on the music and the drama and the spectacle that was Bonnie & Clyde he might actually have enjoyed it, but all he could think about was the way Steve's thigh was insistently pressed to his, the way their sides were connected in an uninterrupted line from shoulder to calf. It made him sweat. 

He regretted this, the date, the movie, everything. He kept thinking to himself how much of an idiot he was for thinking he could convince himself to love someone. 

Bonnie and Clyde sat in their car, crying silently and kissing soundly. The gunshots were loud and quiet, few and many all at once, flashing lights covering the theater in a blanket of technicolor awe. 

And that’s when he felt it. 

The warm, too warm hand on his knee. 

Steve's eyes were fixed on the screen, face serene, but his hand was on Tony’s knee and . . . gradually, as if afraid Tony would notice, making it’s way up his thigh. 

What did he do? What was Tony supposed to do? Some small part of him felt like he owed him this small favor, letting Steve have him, for stringing him along this far. But, another part, far stronger and far louder, told him that this could never be allowed to happen, but it very well would if Tony didn’t stop him right there and right then. 

Tony placed his hand on Steve’s forearm and he looked at him innocently, as if to say, 'Oh, is that my hand? Sorry ‘bout that. Mind of its own.' His gaze met Tony’s, and he tried to send him the most meaningful look he could muster. No, Steve. No. 

His hand pulled away as if Tony’s skin were a stove-top and he’d forgotten he’d left the eye on. Their sides abruptly detached, and while Tony felt the loss of his warmth, it was nothing compared to profound relief he felt in its absence. 

The rest of the night passed quickly after that and he didn't remember much (who that says more about, he’ll leave to the darker recesses of his mind) before Steve walked him to his dorm room door. Steve looked at him with his deep blue eyes, light with embers and dark with some unidentifiable emotion. He looked as if a thousand words would spill from his lips all at once. 

Instead, he surged forward and captured Tony’s lips with his own.  
His eyes closed out of reflex, but he ordered the rest of himself to remain still, mouth and all. Steve 's mouth was shockingly cold and urgent against mine and still tasted of popcorn. His hands were firm on Tony’s waist and the back of his neck, fingers catching in the fabric of my coat. He pulled away after a few more seconds, perhaps finally aware of Tony’s lack of enthusiasm. Steve looked at Tony as if had seen him for the very first time and took one step backward, toward his car. He knew. He had to know at this point. 

“Good night, Steve,” Tony told him, eyes never leaving his.

“Good night, Tony,” Steve said quietly and Tony knew that he understood at least a tiny bit of it. He had to. 

Steve left for Vietnam the next day.

 

In the summer of 1971, Tony is on the shore of Jersey Beach, Stephen’s head pillowed in his lap. They’ve only been seeing each other for a few months, and even now that they’re together it’s still hard to find time to just be. And still they’re here, in Tony’s secret spot, and it’s nice. Stephen knows that whenever they come here, though, Tony not really thinking about him. If they’ve come to Jersey Beach than it’s only for one thing. 

Tony is writing a letter to a man named Steve. Stephen knows that should bother him, should nag at the back of his neck like some awful kind insect, but he can’t bring himself to be irritated or jealous. Steve Rogers was and always will be Tony’s best friend, his partner in crime, the Clyde to his Bonnie. And Tony knows that Steve understands. 

Steve has a way of understanding things.

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts? Questions? Comment!


End file.
